Slowly, slowly, catchy monkey....

Right! And when I say right, I don't mean the opposite of left, I mean 'Oi! you lot, listen up!' (although 'you lot' is a bit optimistic, I should perhaps rephrase that: 'you few'?).

Anyway, it has become apparent - during the first week of the blog - that K.O.D hasn't been the rip-roaring success I'd hoped for - it appears that punk is dead (but I didn't say that, and anyone who says I did is a flipping liar). Fifteen profile views? Fifteen? Crikey...I imagine that more people will buy Jedward's version of 'All the Small Things' (if there was ever proof needed of the ultimate dilution of punk, there it is) and that's shit....this is brilliant.

Sooo...week two. Not much to report really - the government is yet to fall, and the establishment are still...well...firmly established. I think it's going to take a little while longer to liberate the nation via the mediums of poetry, literature, and music. But, as they say: you can't clear up after an earthquake with a dustpan and brush (whatever that means). Let's hope for more success next week.

In other news, XMA, Melton's legendary punk rock warlords, are still sans drummer. We need to find one quick smart before the whole country goes into mourning. Punks everywhere will spontaneously combust upon hearing the news of our demise; children will line the streets, crying 'XMA, and therefore music as we know it, is dead'; women will tear their clothes off and writhe naked on our grave, sobbing uncontrollably, begging for one more chance to see us play live. And nobody wants to deal with that, do they? Actually, I can think of a few who might, but I'm not going to name them. They're just dirty perv's who only want to look at ladies boobies. They make me sick (the perv's, not boobies).
I know it's highly unlikely that people won't have heard of us, but, if there is anybody who just happens to have been residing under a rather hefty rock for 25 years, with cotton wool in their ears, and insulation tape over their eyes, then here's the link to the official website...

http://www.myspace.com/officialxma

Errm...that's about it, I think. I will be writing the K.O.D manifesto at some point, and that's when the excrement will really hit the revolving plastic blades - so watch out. Oh, and by the way, that photo up there at the top, well, that's XMA (or at least the back of Gaz's head). You can plainly see the adulation on people's faces, as the feast their eyes (and ears) upon the revolutionary, spectacular event that is an XMA gig. Just look at the size of the crowd!! I'm on that stage you know...behind the camera man obviously, but I am, or rather, was, there. So up yours!

'Kick over the wall 'cause government's to fall
How can you refuse it?
Let fury have the hour, anger can be power
D'you know that you can use it?' 'Clampdown' by The Clash

Until next time
Glenn

ROCKING THE WRITERS GUILD

Ha! I know what your thinking - 'Rocking the writers guild? What the chuffs he on about?'. Well....I'm about to tell ya....so listen up, right! (maybe 'read on' would work better, but who cares - anarchy baby, yeah!). So, strictly speaking it wasn't the writers guild - it was Nottingham Writers Group - and I didn't exactly rock it; but I did have a damn good go at blowing the bloody socks off everyone there, and I'm pretty much positive that at least one of the old Grannie's stockings dropped by what could have been anything up to 4cm (gravity may have played a part, but I'll put it down to my blistering performance).

Picture the scene....

A rabble of 15+ amateur and professional writers are holed-up in a conference room deep in the heart of Nottingham. Violent strains of police sirens and early evening revelers can be heard from the streets below, but more important matters are at hand. The regular attendees of this twice-monthly meeting are buoyed by the appearance of no less than 3 new members, prompting customary pleasantries and chit-chat before the serious business starts. At 7:45 pm (GMT) the first reader takes her place at the front of the group. The bewigged octogenarian recites chapter nine of her work in progress - some conglomeration of horse racing, love, deceit, and supposedly comedy - the response is tepid. Next there is a poem about poetry, imaginatively titled 'I don't do poetry'. The poem itself recounts a tale of the author's school days, and has something to do with Robbie Burns. It was okay. My turn approaches, but not before we have listened to a short story by a chap from the west midlands. The tale revolves around a retired couple holidaying in the Canary Isles: the old man wants to look at boobs by the pool, so fakes sunburn to avoid an outing. I liked it. Excitement and anticipation are the only words worthy of describing the atmosphere in the room as I approached the front......

And I did it you know....I bloody well did. I got up there and read my poem. They liked it too...said I could be a performance poet, get up on a proper stage at one of them poetry slams, even go on Radio 4 (of course, I've never listened to Radio 4 so I wouldn't know if that was appropriate or not). The head honcho - Carol - described me as, I quote, 'a young talent'. So stick that in your gob and defecate it out your arse....me, talented young poet....who would of thought. Wait until they hear one of my short stories - that'll really blow Grandad's braces off.

So hear it is: my poem

What’s Right?
by Glenn Bradford


Some people laugh at the thought of standing your ground
Like ‘to care’ is a stick, that they can use to beat you down
Instilling a fear, not to show what you feel,
nor stand up and shout,
‘Mate, this shit is for real’.

The stories in the news may not directly affect you,
but this planet is a billion people
all sharing the same roof.
If there was nobody to fight, or protest, or rebel,
then that little piece of hell, that you saw on the screen,
could end up on your doorstep,
where your happiness had once been.

The only way forward is to make yourself heard,
to not take any of the crap that is spread in this world.
Realize your not confined to a life of despair.
One man can make a difference -
A million a change.
There are heroes out there, I’ve seen them today.
Marching and singing, forming human-barricades

I know that I’m guilty of turning a blind eye,
but now I’ve turned a corner - it’s just taken some time.
I can see that the future is what we make it,
and I’ve got kids -
In what kind of world would I want them to live?
One without wars, or murder, or hate
Where your not persecuted for gender, religion, or race.

So that’s why I’ll stand, and try to achieve
Because it’s what we deserve
It’s what the world needs.
The activists to organize, to help us unite
So everybody can say that they fought for what’s right.
If fear is the barrier - the first hurdle to jump,
on a road that is long for those at the front.
Just take that leap of faith.
Join the cause.
For the world is not just theirs -
It’s mine and yours.

Stay tuned for more, folks.
Peace, love, and understanding
Glenn